


I'll Tell You My Sins and You Can Sharpen Your Knife

by Sendnukes



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Choking, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Porn, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 08:33:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14016366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sendnukes/pseuds/Sendnukes
Summary: Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.





	I'll Tell You My Sins and You Can Sharpen Your Knife

As he stares at the red door - wonders vaguely if the red is paint or something else  - he thinks about how much easier this would all be if he could just shrug and say,  _ sorry, I can’t help it _ . But if he’s good at anything, it’s control. Controlling himself. There are very,  _ very _ few things to which he can say he “can’t help it”. 

 

He hesitates in the dark alleyway a moment longer, tries to make himself turn around and walk away, but he can smell the blood through the door and his own blood begins to thrum loudly in his ears as if in response. The door isn’t locked, it never is - makes it all easier for  _ him  _ \- so he lets himself in quietly, staring around the dim room. More paintings have been added, the crimson brushstrokes shining faintly in the candlelight. The smell of blood, heady and overwhelming, is thick in the air and although he’s used to it, he has to swallow the bile rising in his throat. Then again, it’s probably not the blood making him sick; more likely, it’s himself. 

 

He crouches in front of the cellar door, pulls out a lockpick. The door is difficult to get open - it always is - but a little elbow grease does the trick and soon he’s staring down at the dark flight of steps below him. He takes them slowly, breathing in the cool air, the smell of blood fading as he descends. He knows the twisting tunnels by heart, could follow the labyrinth with his eyes closed. Wonders if doing so would make the whole thing easier. Too soon, he’s outside the cavernous room and even though he can’t see the man, he can hear him humming, can hear the soft scritching of paintbrush on canvas.

 

He drops down silently but the man at the easel stills all the same, as if he can sense the presence of someone else. As always, the sight of the artist reminds him of a snake; quick and clever, muscle coiling under his shirt as if ready to strike. Venomous. Dangerous. 

 

“Deacon,” he greets, turning to face him.

 

The cold gray eyes find Deacon’s blue ones, and he can’t move, the familiar sensation of being trapped, and yet wanting to move closer, comes over him. 

 

“Hey,” Deacon says lamely, because Pickman always has the damned effect on him, where all his wit goes right out the fucking window. 

 

Pickman sets his paintbrush down gently, wipes his hands on a cloth, staining the white fabric with garish red streaks. 

 

“Do you like it?” he asks in a tone of polite curiosity when he notices Deacon gazing at the canvas.

 

Despite his revulsion, he does like it. Black skeletal hands reach for an eye that watches them from its place in the blood-red sky. It’s nauseating and beautiful, just like the artist.

 

“I do,” Deacon says, voice cracking.

 

Pickman’s lips curve upwards, just a tiny bit. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

Both men are quiet for a moment, Deacon looking around at the other works in progress, feeling Pickman’s steel gray eyes watching him.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, killer?”

 

The name catches Deacon off-guard; it’s been awhile since he’s heard it. 

 

“I-” Deacon starts before giving up, knowing there’s no point lying to this man any more than there is lying to him, “I don’t know.”

 

“No?” Pickman’s voice is amused. “I do.”

 

Deacon licks his lips nervously. He absolutely  _ hates _ Pickman’s ability to completely see through him. When he doesn't answer, Pickman continues.

 

“I think you’re here because you missed it. Me. Us. What we do together.”

 

Deacon feels a familiar rush of vertigo tugging at his feet. The world spins slightly and he focuses on the floor to try and right himself. 

 

“Am I wrong?”

 

Deacon can’t get words out, doesn’t know what he would even say if he could. He flinches when a cool finger traces the outline of his jaw briefly before tipping Deacon’s face back up. Pickman is closer now, cool eyes examining Deacon like a particularly interesting work of art. It doesn’t help the dizziness.

 

“Am I wrong?” Pickman repeats and now Deacon can hear the ice under the silk, knows he has to answer.

 

“No.”

 

Pickman breaks into a rare smile, which on anyone else would be reassuring but only makes him look more dangerous.

 

“Do you still have it?” he murmurs, circling behind Deacon, “The, ah,  _ gift _ I gave you last time we met.”

 

“Yes,” Deacon whispers.

 

“Show me,” Pickman demands, excitement tinging his usual neutrality. 

 

Deacon obeys, shaking fingers going to his shirt buttons, undoing them slowly. He hesitates for a moment before letting the fabric slide of his shoulders and pool on the floor.

 

“Beautiful,” Pickman says softly, facing Deacon again, cold fingers going to the scar.

 

Deacon closes his eyes at the touch, lets Pickman run his fingers over the mark. It’s almost white, it’s so old. He hasn’t been here in a while. The scar is perfectly straight, thanks to Pickman’s steady hands, stretching from just under Deacon’s left nipple to the middle of his stomach. 

 

“I remember giving you this so clearly,” Pickman says and Deacon doesn’t open his eyes, entranced by the other man’s voice, soft as velvet, “You were  _ exquisite _ .” 

 

A finger glides across Deacon’s nipple and his eyes fly open, a quiet gasp falls from his lips. He berates himself for the sound. _Stupid, stupid. Never show weakness._ _Not to him_. Pickman just smiles wider. 

 

“What about the other one? Your lover.  _ Nate _ .”

 

His name makes nausea coil in his stomach.

 

“Gone,” he croaks out, “Left me.” 

 

“Left you?” Pickman asks, brow furrowing, “But you’re  _ perfect _ . Maybe he just didn’t know how to play with you.” A flash of teeth and Deacon steadies himself for the gush of blood as his throat is ripped out, but it’s just a smile. “But I know how to play with you, don’t I?”

 

Deacon finds himself nodding, hardly even aware of doing so. 

 

“Would you like to play, killer?”

 

“Yes,” Deacon whispers, shivering as Pickman’s fingers ghost over the scar again. 

 

“Excellent.”

 

Pickman circles back around Deacon again, pulls him against his chest. Deacon shivers at the warm breath against his neck, at Pickman’s scent, so familiar to him now, something faintly spicy, likes cloves, and under it all, blood. Pickman scrapes his teeth down the side of Deacon’s neck, tongue darting out to lick the raw trail. His hands drop to Deacon’s belt, working it open quickly and Deacon is ashamed at how aroused he is already. But Pickman is stepping away and he knows what comes next.

 

He watches Pickman sort through his knife collection. “My other paintbrushes” he had called them once. He selects one, long and thin, sharp blade gleaming wickedly in the dim light. Deacon swears he hears Pickman sigh happily as he twirls the knife between his fingers. He keeps his eyes trained on the other man as he approaches him again, painfully aware of his cock straining at his boxers, his pants already sliding down his hips without the belt. 

 

“Ready?” Pickman asks, and his voice is lower now with arousal.

 

Deacon nods.

 

Pain drags down Deacon’s chest in the wake of the knife. He looks down, watching, waiting. Nothing, nothing, nothing, then  _ red _ . The blood wells up, begins to trickle down his stomach. The new cut matches the old scar, mirrored identically on the other side of his body. Deacon moans, and really, when did he start getting off on pain so much? Pickman drops to his knees in front of Deacon, drags his tongue up the cut, blood smearing over his mouth, eyes dark. Deacon lets out a shaky breath, his cock twitching at the sight. 

 

“So beautiful,” Pickman murmurs, retrieving a stimpack and carefully injecting some of it next to the cut, watching the skin knit itself back together, good as new. 

 

He turns his attention to Deacon and he can see that Pickman’s just as turned on as he is. He tugs at his pants, letting them fall next to his shirt before stepping out of them, Pickman’s eyes following his every move. He steps towards him slowly, waiting, as always, for the day that murderer strikes out, slicing his throat open for daring to come near him. Today is not that day though and he lets Deacon remove his suit jacket, loosen his tie, unbutton his shirt. His chest is perfectly smooth, clearly there’s no pleasure to be had in watching himself bleed. Deacon dips his head to nip sharply at Pickman’s collarbone, receiving a hum of satisfaction in response. Suddenly, his hand grips Deacon’s hair, sharply yanking his head back, bearing his throat. He swallows hard, tries to keep Pickman in his sight as the man leans down, lets out a soft cry when he sucks hard at the soft spot below his jaw. Pickman chuckles into his skin, making goosebumps pop up all over Deacon's bare skin. 

 

The artist presses the knife back to Deacon's chest, keeps his eyes trained on his as he drags the knife back down Deacon's chest, slicing a new line over the freshly healed area. Deacon bites his lip, tipping his head back as a new round of pain travels down his chest, hears Pickman's breathing hitch just a little. A sharp prick as the stimpack is injected, cool fingers tracing through the blood. 

 

His cock is achingly hard now, and when Pickman backs him up into a wall, he can feel the other man’s own arousal pressing into his leg. The sensation makes him groan a little bit. Pickman bites his lip hard enough it bleeds and that has Deacon rutting up against him, embarrassing little whines escaping his throat.

 

“So needy,” Pickman murmurs, dragging his fingernails roughly across the sensitive skin below Deacon’s hips hard enough to raise pink welts before sliding his hand under the waistband of his boxers.

 

Deacon can’t help the desperate moan that spills from his lips when Pickman’s hand wraps around his aching cock. He gives Deacon a couple lazy strokes before pulling away, curled lips too red, cold eyes glittering. While Pickman strides across the room to root through a chest full of various bottles, Deacon tries to collect himself, takes a few steadying breaths. When he returns, he’s holding the knife in one hand and a small bottle of lubricant in the other. Deacon is glad to see that the liquid in the bottle is a normal clear; he’s not about to he jerked off with blood. 

 

He doesn’t even flinch at the next cut or the insertion of the stimpack. He’s too absorbed in the pain, Pickman going deeper than before with the knife this time. His cock is starting to leak and,  _ finally _ , Pickman pours a small amount of lube in one hand, pulling Deacon’s boxers down with the other. Pleasure is cut sharply with pain as Pickman’s slick hand works him, thumb brushing over Deacon’s head, smearing pre-cum down his shaft. He drops his head to suck hard - too hard for anyone else - at Pickman’s neck, the resulting catch of the man’s breath making his cock twitch in Pickman’s hand. Somewhere, in the far recesses of his mind, he’s aware that there’s blood dripping down his stomach, splattering on the floor. He can’t seem to care.

 

Pickman jerks Deacon faster, hand slipping wetly over his cock with an obscene sound. Deacon’s hips jerkily buck up to meet his hand and he bites hard into Pickman’s shoulder to stifle his groans. 

 

“None of that,” Pickman says sharply, yanking Deacon’s head away by his hair, “I want to  _ hear _ you.”

 

Deacon nods frantically, desperate for the sweet friction on his cock again. Pickman obliges, giving a small twist at the base and a light squeeze at the tip and Deacon sees stars. He knows that psychopaths, or sociopaths or whatever the serial killer is, are good at reading people, but it still freaks him out how well Pickman knows what he wants, knows exactly how to touch him. He can’t help the quiet, breathy moans spilling from his lips now, forehead resting against Pickman’s shoulder. He makes a pathetic noise of protest when the grip is removed from his dick and looks up to see Pickman smiling at him. 

 

Pain, almost too much this time, rips down his chest, and when the stimpack mends the skin back together, a line of red inflammation remains. 

 

“Let’s play a little more, killer,” Pickman whispers into Deacon’s ear, pushing him back towards the bed in the corner, the one Deacon is almost sure exists down here only for this purpose.

 

He lets himself fall back on the old mattress, Pickman crawling up his naked body, letting Deacon buck his hips against the other man’s clothed ones. 

 

“Fuck,” Deacon groans, hands settling on Pickman’s hips and yanking him down.

 

Pickman makes a small noise of surprise but lets Deacon grind into him, his own breathing speeding up the smallest bit. It drives Deacon crazy to hear the man starting to lose control. He wants more. 

 

“Let me touch you,” he growls, hands hovering over Pickman’s belt. 

 

He hesitates for a moment before giving a slight nod and Deacon all but tears his pants open, sliding them off his narrow hips to reveal that the artist goes commando, his own cock pressed up against his taut stomach. It’s not something he ever does with anyone else, but Deacon squirms out from under Pickman, falling to his knees at the side of the bed, looking up at the other man questioningly. Pleadingly. Pickman allows him to takes his dick in his mouth, swallow him to the base, slide up again, tongue flicking over the slit until hands tangle in his hair, shoving his head back down. Deacon thinks he might choke but Pickman isn’t letting him up, fucking his face with long thrusts and the feeling of the man’s cock hitting the back of his throat almost tips him over the edge. 

 

Pickman pulls him up too soon but he looks wonderfully undone, strands of hair have come out of his ponytail and his pupils are blown wide. He grins crookedly at Deacon. 

 

“Such a pretty mouth you have. Time for the main event, though.”

 

Deacon’s stomach tightens in anticipation, the words shooting straight to his dick, making it twitch. Pickman pulls a familiar pair of handcuffs out of  _ somewhere _ , snapping one around Deacon’s left wrist, leading him towards the bed. Deacon falls on the bed, lays on his back, lets Pickman cuff his right hand to the bedpost, followed by the left. He feels painfully exposed, as always, but his mind is wiped temporarily blank when a slick finger is pressed to his hole. He pushes futilely against the digit, trying to drive it in deeper but he has no leverage. His wrists twist painfully in the cuffs and Pickman laughs somewhere above him. 

 

“You like that, Deacon?” he asks, sliding the finger in the rest of the way, curling it teasingly. 

 

Deacon’s hips jerk up and he gasps, whines when the finger is remove, cries out when Pickman’s finger pushes back in, followed by another one. He rocks against the fingers, feeling them brush  _ that _ spot, panting out little moans. White-hot pain as the knife opens his skin again but Pickman is hitting deep inside him over and over. Deacon thinks he might have screamed, the two sensations overwhelming, and he doesn’t want either of them to stop. 

 

“Oh fuck yes,” he groans, “Again.”

 

Pickman obliges, stimpacking Deacon before reopening the wound again. Deacon definitely screams this time, feeling hot blood weeping from the gash, thusting against Pickman’s fingers moving inside him.

 

“More,” he pants, writhing against the mattress. 

 

Pickman isn’t smiling anymore, his eyes are dark with lust and he licks his lips. “You’re so beautiful begging like that, killer.”

 

Deacon whimpers as Pickman scissors his fingers inside him, watching through half-lidded eyes as Pickman slicks his own cock up quickly, lining himself up. He almost blacks out when Pickman pushes into him, making the open cut down his stomach bleed harder. Through the fog in his brain, he feels a needle enter his stomach, the wound closing. 

 

Pickman fucks him in long, slow thrusts, forcing Deacon’s legs open with his hands. Deacon can’t believe he always manages to forget how damn good Pickman always is, but, per usual, he finds himself scrabbling at his restraints, filthy groans pouring out of him. Pickman’s head is bowed, his hair loose from its tie, and he’s so gorgeous that Deacon can’t take his eyes off him. The louder Deacon gets, the harder Pickman fucks him and soon Deacon is moaning loud enough to wake the dead and Pickman is slamming into him, hitting his spot over and over, driving him to the brink again and again.

 

“Here we go, killer,” Pickman whispers, “One more time.”

 

Deacon cries out when the knife opens his flesh and again when he comes, the searing pain tipping him over the edge. He whimpers through the aftershocks, Pickman still fucking him roughly. His gray eyes never leave Deacon’s as he clamps a hand around the other man’s throat, squeezing so hard that black spots danse in Deacon’s vision. He draws in a ragged breath, snapping his hips up to meet Pickman’s thrusts, more whines already falling from his lips. The soft noises seem to do it for Pickman, and he spills into Deacon with a shudder, groaning quietly. 

 

He composes himself quickly, pulling out of Deacon with a smile, his eyes unusually soft. Deacon watches silently as Pickman holds a small vial to his bleeding stomach collecting his blood, before healing him with the last of the stimpack. The skin mends but Deacon has a new scar to match the old one, as he knew he would. 

 

“Lovely,” Pickman murmurs, holding the vial up to the light before turning back to Deacon and unlocking the cuffs. 

 

Deacon struggles into a sitting position, massaging his raw wrists. The two men dress in silence, Deacon wincing as his shirt scrapes over his stomach. He hesitates at the door. Pickman is already humming happily again, storing the vial of blood away carefully. He glances up at Deacon, walks over to him.

 

“Take care of yourself, killer,” he says, capturing Deacon’s mouth in a hot kiss, sucking on his tongue and nibbling at his lower lip.

 

“I will,” Deacon gasps when Pickman pulls away. 

 

“Come back and see me soon.”

 

“You know I can't stay away.”

 

Pickman smirks. “Good.”

  
  


Deacon leans against the wall outside the cemetery, trying to calm his still racing heart. Despite the uncomfortable thumping in his chest, he feels better than he has in weeks. His mind is clear, his nerves even. He doesn't like to think about why that is. Doesn't like to think about why he always comes out of the gallery feeling like he's gone to church, sins absolved. Like having Pickman cut him and fuck him is his confessional booth. Thinks of the book he read once that mentioned bleeding as a way to purge the body and the spirit, faceless doctors over pale bodies. 

 

He fingers the new scar under his shirt, lights a cigarette. Thinks briefly about going back down there and pushing Pickman against the wall, having his way with him, watching him come undone. But that's not how this all works, so Deacon heads down the dark road, turning his back on the house of sacrament, the church of blood.


End file.
